


Ring Fingers

by ImpudentGuttersnipe



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Colonialism, Cursing Like Sailors, M/M, No period-typical homophobia, total crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 15:03:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15798978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpudentGuttersnipe/pseuds/ImpudentGuttersnipe
Summary: “If you can remember this, you might just have the world’s best memory, Francis, seeing as how it was, oh, twenty five, twenty-six years ago, and you were at least as drunk as I was at the time..."Young and drunk is how some of the world's best mistakes are made, but Crozier and Blanky are not so amused.





	Ring Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> This is it - the "did we get married twenty-six years ago?" fic, featuring Crozier and Blanky, because it was a ridiculous idea, and I just couldn't resist the call of absurdity.
> 
> This was at least partly inspired by the classic Firefly episode "Our Mrs. Reynolds", because accidentally getting married on an island where you don't understand the culture while you're drunk is a lot like accidentally getting married on a planet where you don't understand the culture while you're drunk, right? And let's face it - Crozier and Blanky would make such PERFECT Browncoats!

“Francis?”

“Hmmm?” Captain Francis Crozier didn’t bother removing his pipe from his mouth, as that would require moving his hands from his pockets, which were marginally warmer than the frigid night air on deck. It was another endless, sleepless night that not even whisky would help, so Crozier had come up on deck with his pipe, and discovered his oldest mate, Ice Master Thomas Blanky leaning on the frozen railing, in much the same state.

“I’ve got a serious question, damn you! I figured that you might know the answer, because I sure as fuck don’t, and it’s been troubling me all day, since I first thought of it.” Blanky certainly _looked_ troubled, his fierce brows and somewhat grizzled face pulled into an uncharacteristic frown around his own pipe. Crozier leaned in closer, and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, wind, weather, and his own pipe be damned.

“ Perhaps I’ve got your answer for you. What was that question?” Blanky gave a low, dry chuckle.

“If you can answer me this, you might just have the world’s best memory, seeing as how it was, oh, twenty five, twenty-six years ago, and you were at least as drunk as I was at the time. You remember when we sailed on the Dotterel, ‘round the Cape of Good Hope?” Francis grinned.

“How could I forget? We were young, I’d just made mate, we could raise hell all night and still manage to get in our day’s work, though how exactly we always escaped flogging I’m not entirely sure, looking back… And it was  _warm_ .”  Oh, Francis remembered. He remembered Thomas Blanky, dark haired and grinning, a compact bundle of muscle, sinew, suntan,  and sheer nerve, swinging joyously through the rigging like a madman or a monkey, brown all over, as he’d eschewed shirts, and often shoes,  or long trousers for that matter, for that entire voyage. He’d been feral and glorious, and so very much trouble… 

“ Right, well, it’s some o’that hell raisin’ that I’m hoping you can clear up for me. Remember that one real fucking bastard of a storm, when we  just barely scraped the keel clean on that bleedin’ reef, an’ we were forced to shelter  alee of that island just off Hout  Bay, and we were all so  damned happy just to be alive that we got a little more off our faces than usual, and it turned out there were people living there, not far at all from where we’d fetched up?” For a man recalling an adventure that had ended well, and a quarter-century ago at that, Thomas still carried an odd expression of worry on his face. Francis laughed aloud though, in a rare moment of delight at the memory of the  beautiful, odd,  tropical village they had been welcomed into, by some of the  strangest and most  delightful people he’d met before or since.  They’d been so surprised to find that cluster of tidy, round, thatched cottages, raised on stilts, in a clearing not far from a white beach, full of a welcoming, friendly folk, all with brown skin and curling hair in shades from black to dark gold, living in what seemed to be Eden itself.

“ And for some godawful, stupid reason, they sent US, of all the men, ashore along with old Dibbler, and that reprobate Vimes,” continued Francis, smiling at the fond memory, “And we found that nobody at all there spoke a word of any language any of us knew, except for that elderly  p riest, with just a bit of English and Dutch, but he was probably the only survivor  left  of that  _last_ shipwreck, wasn’t he?”  The man had been as withered as old leather, with  thin cirrus clouds of hair about his head, and dim, but benevolent blue eyes.  Now Francis began to frown with an effort of memory  and Thomas picked up the dropped thread of the story.

“Right. There’d been, what, three ships wrecked on that island over the past century, and the survivors had settled in with the locals, and they were all so brown, I remember well how they laughed at _you,_ Francis, with your bright and peelin’ sunburn, and pretty yellow hair,  remember how long it was back then? Like a fuckin’ girl’s! And you must remember the feast they threw for us, while we were supposed to be there tradin’ for supplies to help repair the ship, but o’course they didn’t have visitors often, and they’d made that goddamned good palm wine, and so bleeding much of it...” Francis shook his head slowly and fondly. 

“That was damned good palm wine. How much of it do you think we actually drank?”  Blanky heaved a sigh and slumped lower onto the icy rail.

“Too fucking much, I reckon, for all I remember of the rest of the time there. But what I  _do_ remember, that’s what’s been troubling me so gravely.”  Francis tilted his head quizzically,  straining through memories that had been half dissolved by the years, and had been formed in a soft, happily drunken haze to begin with.  Yes, the wine had been good. So had the roasted game and foul, the odd dish made from what looked like potatoes, but tasted so queerly, invitingly sweet, and the abundance of fresh fruit. And of course, that delicious wine.

“C’mon, Thomas, nothing worth a worry happened there, I’m sure I’d remember if it had. Our hosts were most courteous – they had that ceremonial welcome, and then the feast, and the dancing, and we even got out own little cottage to stay in, with that coconut grease that was so good for a sunburn, and, well...” Oh, it had been good for more than the sunburn, it had been very good indeed… And the cottage had been so comfortable, after so long at sea, with braided palm matting over the floor, heaps of soft cushions, little clay oil lamps that lent a soft, golden light, a tiny brazier burning something sweet-smelling, like sandalwood, a large jug of water, another of still more wine, and a number of those little bowls of coconut grease. They’d not had much sleep, but they’d had a wonderful night there all the same.

“And well!  _There’s_ the problem for you! We were, well, close back then, right, and affectionate, like...”

“More like shagging when and where ever we found the chance.”

“Exactly! Weren’t shy about it, either, were we? An’ didn’t you stop to think that maybe they were treating us maybe a little special? With those crowns of flowers, an’ all? Was anyone else wearing crowns of flowers?”

“ All the girls had flowers in their hair, didn’t they?” 

“Yeah, well in spite of your pretty hair  back then ,  _we ain’t girls, Francis!_ ” Francis couldn’t help laughing aloud again. 

“Well,” he sputtered, “We spent enough time in each other’s trousers over the years to be pretty damn sure of that, unless you’ve made some changes since the old days!” Blanky gave his Captain a gentle shove. 

“I’m still every inch the man I was back then, you can count on that, yeh pillow biting,  pansy arsed...”

“Thomas Blanky, are you looking for a flogging, or are you courting me again? I never could quite tell the difference.”  This time the Captain was not shoved gently at all. 

“Oh, so it’s courting  then .”  Was it the whisky or the memories that brought the roguish grin to his face?  And why was Thomas still so grim?

“ You wish I was courting you, Francis. Look, just humour me. Take off yer left glove.” 

“What, so you can see how fast fingers are freezing off tonight? I’m not taking anything off on deck here without a good reason.” Blanky grumbled under his breath, and hunched further into his coat, but finally acquiesced.

“Fine. We’ll go below. Then I want a look at your hand, and you tell me what you see there.”  Francis shrugged. 

“Fine. And we can have a drink while we’re at it.”

“Believe you me, darlin’ you’re gonna fuckin’ need it. I sure as hell do.”

“Fine. A drink, and we’ll warm ourselves, and you’ll tell me what the bleeding hell this is all about.”

“Oh, I’ll tell yeh,” grumbled Blanky, as he followed Crozier down the main ladderway to the Mess Deck, “But I don’t think you’ll like what you hear any better than I do.”

“Y’know, Blanky, I believe we’ve spent too much time in each other’s bad company. You’re starting to sound like me,” muttered Crozier, as they removed their heavy outdoor wear, and began down the companionway toward the Great Cabin.

“As long as I haven’t started to look like you, I just might survive.”

Upon reaching the Great Cabin, and taking seats near the small coal stove in an attempt to at least partially thaw after their time above deck, Francis wasted no time in pouring out two generous glasses of his favourite Irish whisky, and after and initial warming drink, asked Blanky,

“So what is it then, that has you in such a state, Thomas? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this over anything that wasn’t a matter of life and death.”

“This could well be, if Esther ever finds out. Now give me your bloody hand.” Francis laid his left hand on the table, and Thomas grasped it avidly, pulling it toward him and squinting down in the dim lantern light. After a moment of keen examination, he shoved back his chair, tossed back his entire glass of whiskey in a single draught, and stood, clutching at his temples as if in pain.

“Oh bloody fuckin’ hell! It’s as bad as I thought! Look at yer hand, Francis! The ring finger!”

Francis peered down in confusion and concern, seeing nothing but a faint, greyish smudge, in the shape of a rough cross, on the skin of his first joint.

“I’ve got an odd sort of a scar or something there, but I don’t see what...” Thomas slapped his own left hand down atop Francis’, so that the fingers were aligned between each other, for close comparison. He too bore a marking on his finger, clearer, and more obvious.

“That’s no fucking scar, goddamnit it all to hell! That’s a tattoo, if I ever seen one.”

“I don’t remember us getting our fingers tattooed.” Francis frowned. “And why’s mine so light then?”

“How many times’ve you had frostbite, you Polar wanker? And how fuckin’ drunk were we when we were on that island?”

“We were really very fuckin’ drunk, I think that’s been established. And yes, I’ve had a case or two of frostbite, but it had nothing to do with wanking, thanks very much! Now what the bleeding fuck is this all about?” Thomas Blanky’s voice went faint and distant.

“I remembered something, Francis, from that goddamned island, just the other night while I was getting ready for my watch, and I took off my wedding ring, may Esther forgive me, so it wouldn’t freeze solid onto my finger. I saw that little mark, and I remembered that goddamned priest sayin’ some sort of gibberish while we grinned and got our fingers jabbed with a needle, and kept on drinkin… “

He looked up, his eyes haunted by the terrible memory.

“Francis, I think we got married that night.”

Their eyes locked for a single, awful moment.

“Bloody buggering hell!” Francis tossed back his entire glass of whisky, and dropped his head into his arms on the tabletop.

At that moment there was a polite tap on the door, which then slid back to reveal the slightly dishevelled head of Thomas Jopson, Captain Francis Crozier’s absurdly astute and handsome young steward, and occasional casual lover.

“Pardon me, Sir, but I was awakened by the noise in here. Is there anything wrong, and can I be of any assistance?”

Crozier and Blanky looked to one another, at an absolute loss for words, and burst out in full roars of helpless laughter.

 

 

 


End file.
